e entrance of the defiles,
defended with desperate valour the gates of their country, and, when
dispersed by the superior discipline and arms of Hannibal's soldiers,
still beset the ridges above their line of march, and harassed his
troops by continual hostility. When the woody region was passed, and the
vanguard emerged into the open mountain pastures, which lead to the
verge of perpetual snow, fresh difficulties awaited them. The turf, from
the gliding down of newly fallen snow on those steep declivities, was so
slippery, that it was often scarcely possible for the men to keep their
feet; the beasts of burden lost their footing at every step, and rolled
down in great numbers into the abysses beneath; the elephants became
restive amidst privations and a climate to which they were totally
unaccustomed; and the strength of the soldiers, worn out with incessant
marching and fighting, began to sink before the continued toil of the
ascent. Horrors, formidable to all, but in an especial manner terrible
to African soldiers, awaited them at the summit. It was now the end of
October; winter in all its severity had already set in on those lofty
solitudes; the mountain sides, silent and melancholy even at the height
of summer, when enamelled with flowers and dotted with flocks, presented
then an unbroken sheet of snow; the blue lakes which are interspersed
over the level valley at their feet, were frozen over, and
undistinguishable from the rest of the dreary expanse, and a boundless
mass of snowy peaks arose on all sides, presenting apparently an
impassable barrier to their further progress.

But it was then that the greatness of Hannibal shone forth in all its
lustre. "That great general," says Arnold, "who felt that he now stood
victorious on the ramparts of Italy, and that the torrent which rolled
before him was carrying its waters to the rich plains of Cisalpine Gaul,
endeavoured to kindle his soldiers with his own spirit of hope. He
called them together; he pointed out the valley beneath, to which the
descent seemed the work of a moment. 'That valley,' he said, 'is Italy;
it leads us to the country of our friends the Gauls, and yonder is our
way to Rome!' His eyes were eagerly fixed on that point of the horizon,
and as he gazed, the distance between seemed to vanish, till he could
almost fancy that he was crossing the Tiber and assailing the
Capitol[23]." Such were the difficulties of the passage and the descent
on the othe